Shooting the Rift - eARC (13 page)

“I don’t know. Something exciting.” Clio shrugged.

“Something exciting, coming up.” I fed power into the gravitics, pointing the nose skyward. The cab shot up and out of the traffic lanes, the collision avoidance system getting a real workout in the process, which added a few jolts and lurches to our progress.

Clio squealed. “What the hell do you think you’re playing at? You’ll get us killed!”

“No, I won’t,” I assured her. She seemed to believe me, too, God knows why, leaning forward eagerly in her seat as the idea sunk in that I was in full control of the hurtling cab.

“Prove it. Shoot the cradle.”

For a second or so I wondered what she meant, and then I registered the circle of sky visible beyond the platform I’d been staring at. The idea was irresistible.

“Brilliant.” I aimed for the center of the bullseye, and we shot up and through the thick steel ring in a long, smooth parabola, topping out about a hundred feet above it: which was still below the tops of the hulls of the ships in the occupied cradles. Glancing back, I saw several of the maintenance workers shouting and gesticulating in our general direction: I wasn’t entirely sure what they were saying, but somehow I doubted that they were complimenting me on my flying ability.

Clio had noticed them too. “Uh oh. We could be in trouble.”

“Don’t think so.” I took us around the nearest freighter, out of their eyeline. “We’d have been past so quick they won’t have got a good look at us.” This vessel looked a little different to the
Stacked Deck,
its hull less smooth: small metallic blisters ran around it, every thirty degrees, with a larger one on the top. They looked uncannily like the emitters of a warship’s offensive graviton beams, although I couldn’t for the life of me imagine why a warship would be docked at a commercial starport. Its beacon was transmitting a clear ident, though; the
Eddie Fitz
, non-Guild, registered to a shipping company on Downholm. A League world, a couple of rifts away from Numarkut.

“What about our nav system, though?” Clio fretted. “If Traffic Control mesh in . . .”

“They’ll find we’re pootling along in the designated passenger lane,” I assured her. “It’s not the first time I’ve done this sort of thing, you know.” Which was sort of true—we didn’t have automated traffic control on Avalon, as the aristocracy felt the odd fatal accident was a small price to pay to avoid the inconvenience of having their movements recorded and restricted, and what was good enough for them bloody well ought to be good enough for the rest of us, but I’d redacted the memories of a fair few trips Mother would have disapproved of from the family runabout’s diagnostic systems over the years.

Right about then, though, I was more interested in the
Eddie Fitz.
There wouldn’t be anything about her in the hoard of data I’d purloined from Plubek, as she’d have arrived through one of the rifts leading into the League, but the beacon might be informative. I ran quickly through the class and registry details, probing more deeply than the public datacast, to access the additional information she’d passed on to the Harbormaster’s office. Former transport for the League fleet auxiliary, mothballed about twelve years ago, sold on to the Toniden Line after a decade or so, and refitted as a civilian freighter. Modifying the hull after stripping out the armament would have been hideously expensive, so the housings had just been left
in situ
. Of course they’d make balancing the grav field around the hull while shooting a rift a bit more tricky, but nothing a halfway decent bit of ‘ware couldn’t handle, especially with a competent engineer riding herd on it. She seemed to be on a regular run, with three visits to Numarkut recorded in the last six months, but I didn’t have time to worm any more out of the system: we were already moving away from the cradle at a rapid clip, and the beacon’s power was low, only intended to guide drones and cargo sleds to the right platform once they were in its immediate vicinity.

“If you say so,” Clio said, a little dubiously, then glanced at me with a sparkle of mischief in her eyes. “But I guess if you’re wrong we’re already in trouble, so . . . how fast can you get us to that drink?”

“This fast,” I said, overriding the limiter on the power plant, and pinning us back in our seat with another surge of acceleration.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

In which a small change of plan leads to an unexpected party.

The city of Dullingham lived up to its name just as much as the landing field had. As soon as we crossed the city limits I returned control of the cab to its onboard systems, which remained blissfully unaware that they’d ever been tampered with, and sat back to enjoy the sights, only to discover that there weren’t any.

All right, that was a little unfair. According to the city guide I was able to access through the cab’s node, Dullingham possessed parks, a cathedral, a municipal art gallery housing several notable works by a renowned Numarkut artist I’d never heard of before, and a botanical garden containing specimens of flora from a dozen different worlds, all of them colorful, and hardly any of which were lethally toxic. Not to mention theatres, music halls, and a fun fair, if your recreational tastes were a little less refined. But the part we were traversing was universally damp and cheerless.

Which, I suppose, was only to be expected. This close to the docks they exerted their own kind of gravitational attraction, pulling in services and utility zones, while the majority of residential areas and their associated amenities drifted to the opposite side of the river dividing the city. Most of the buildings around us were warehouses, ancient and weather-stained, some of them probably dating back as far as the first settlement. Generations of addition and refurbishment had kept them structurally sound, while a few newer structures, like fresh dentures in a gum full of rotting teeth, gave mute testament to those which had given up the battle with the passing of the years. (Or, more prosaically, had proven cheaper to knock down and replace than to keep on repairing.)

“Why did you do that?” Clio asked, as I disengaged from the node, and the cab dropped back to the officially sanctioned pace of an arthritic slug. With good reason, I must admit, the roads between the warehouses being full of big, heavy cargo sleds with a lot of inertia, drone lifters buzzing up and down between the curbside and the higher levels, and people milling around between them, either contributing to the general bustle, or getting somewhere far away from it as quickly as possible. Dusk was coming on by now, accelerated by the looming clouds and the high walls all around us, and lamps were beginning to kindle, spilling puddles of sticky yellow light, which wavered slightly every time a fast-moving cargo sled in the upper traffic lane sent the supporting drones bobbing in the backwash of its passing, across the street below.

“Too much chance of bumping into something,” I said, a little regretfully, as our high-speed dash across the landing field had been quite exhilarating. “Besides, if those cradlejacks did get a look at us, we want to look like a sled that’s behaving itself in front of all these people.”

“Good point.” She leaned forward a little, to look out of the window on my side of the cab. “Besides, we’re almost there. Don’t want to make too big an entrance.”

“Quite,” I agreed. Even though Guilders seemed to have a fairly flexible relationship with local law enforcement, I was pretty sure entering a tavern without getting out of the sled first would be frowned upon.

The cab hummed round a corner, and most of the commercial traffic disappeared; only a few short-term storage facilities seemed to be on this street, and, beyond the next intersection, a mixture of residential and commercial properties began: low-rent housing for the small army of workers required to keep the dockyard and its cargo handling facilities running smoothly, and the ancillary businesses which would inevitably spring up around them, in an effort to siphon off a portion of their wages. Chief among them, of course, were bars and bordellos, the latter easily distinguished by the number of scantily-clad men and women lounging around in the lobby, eyeing up every passerby with bright smiles and dead eyes. Most were heavily made-up, in an effort to disguise the accelerated aging endemic to their vocation, but without much success. There were a surprising number of transgeners among them too: Aunt Jenny had been right about the popularity of tails, although in this context I found the tweak, and the reasons for its choice I tried hard not to think about, quite profoundly disturbing.

“Anything you like?” Clio asked, and I felt my face flame scarlet.

“Of course not,” I said, and she glanced across at me, looking faintly confused: only then did I realize she’d been scanning the diners and food stalls lining the sidewalk on the opposite side of the street. “I mean, I ate before we came out. Thanks.”

“Maybe later.” She grinned, picking up on the subtext of the exchange. “I said I’d buy you a drink, Si, not a hooker.”

“Good,” I said, a bit too vehemently, and she snickered quietly, greatly amused by my evident confusion. “Kind as the offer would be, I’m afraid I’d have to turn it down.”

“Not the sort of thing an Avalonian gentleman does?” she teased.

“Definitely not,” I agreed, relieved that she found the whole thing so amusing. “Avalonian ladies, on the other hand . . .” Tinkie had never made any secret of her escapades while on leave, many of which seemed to have involved paid participants, although whether she’d been entirely truthful, or embroidering these accounts because my disapproval amused her so much, I had no idea. The thought of my sister was a poignant one, not least because we’d parted on such bad terms, and I found myself casting about for something to banish the sudden sensation of loss which threatened to overwhelm me. “Let’s walk from here.”

“Good idea,” Clio said, instructing the cab to pull over.

We disembarked on a damp and crowded sidewalk, the sled rising and pulling away in search of fresh customers as soon as the door closed behind us. I debated with my conscience about whether I should mesh back in briefly to inflate the fare, to compensate for the additional wear and tear I’d inflicted on the little vehicle’s systems, but for once I won: no point in leaving any anomalous traces of meddling which might lead to trouble later on.

For a mercy, the persistent drizzle we’d set out in had moderated to a thin Scotch mist, hazing the air between the hovering lights, and the garish illumination spilling from food emporia, tavern, and brothel alike. If there was any other kind of business on the street I didn’t see it, although I suppose some of the rooms on the upper floors could easily have been offices of some kind rather than the apartments I assumed at the time.

The first thing which struck me, apart from the noise, was the smell: damp air, of course, but intermingled with the odors of sizzling meat and fish from the open-air stalls, and spicier aromas from the more permanent premises. Ozone, from the power plants of the sleds and drones hurrying by, and the sickly sweet smell of too many people in too little space who haven’t had a chance to dry out yet.

“Which way?” I asked, and to my complete lack of surprise, Clio began to stroll off down the street in the direction we’d been going aboard the cab.

“It’s not far,” she assured me, after I’d trotted a couple of steps to catch up.

Not that I minded. Even constricted as it was, the thoroughfare seemed huge and open after the narrow corridors of the
Stacked Deck
, the constant bubble and hum of humanity around us curiously invigorating. I was, of course, reminded of the streets I’d followed my aunt along on Skyhaven, but here there was no initial sense of order, like the one I’d experienced on first leaving her apartment. Even the miserable weather seemed there to remind me of the random nature of the world, a raw, vibrant presence, instead of the omnipresent blandness of the residential sectors of the orbital.

“Pardon me.” A young transgener, his purple fur, bisected by a vertical blue stripe down the center of his face, and matted against his skin by the rain, shot me an apologetic look as our shoulders bumped, forced together by the press of the crowd.

I nodded politely, trying not to gag at the smell, which reminded me rather too strongly of a wet dog. “You’re welcome,” I said, shooting a hand into my pocket. Sure enough I grabbed a wriggling tail, trifurcated at the tip into rudimentary fingers, which I squeezed tightly until my would-be pickpocket’s lips compressed into a thin line. My point made, I released it, feeling the extraneous limb withdraw back to the open air. “We all make mistakes.”

I half expected some thinly veiled threat in response, but the fellow just beat a hasty retreat, disappearing into the crowd with an expression in which relief, resentment and contempt seemed curiously intermingled.

“Nicely done,” Clio said. “I wondered if you’d spot what he was up to.”

“I didn’t,” I admitted. “I’ve just got a nasty suspicious mind.”

“And good reflexes,” Clio said, with what seemed to be a hint of admiration.

I shrugged. “Athlete, remember?”

To my relief we were coming to a block consisting mainly of bars and diners, with fewer of the less reputable businesses (and their distracting employees) to be seen. Though many of the passersby were dressed like cargo handlers and other port employees, Clio and I were far from being the only ships’ crew visible: clearly the local recreation industry was flourishing because it catered to their needs as well as to the locals. Which made sense—when you were only going to be around for as long as it took to unload one cargo and find another, you wouldn’t want to spend too much time travelling to find your entertainment. Most of the starfarers wore Guild patches somewhere on their clothing, although a minority didn’t, sporting the logo of a non-Guild shipping line instead, or, in a couple of cases, nothing at all.

“Freebooters,” Clio said when I asked, with an expression of deep disapproval. “Non-Guilders who’ve got hold of a ship somehow, and scrape a living hustling what work they can.”

“Sounds tough,” I said, neutrally. If Rennau had lost the
Stacked Deck
to financial misfortune, with the resources of the Guild behind him, I could barely imagine how hard an independent trader would find it to keep their ship in the sky.

“Better believe it,” Clio said, with a venomous glare at the oblivious back of a photosynthesising transgener, whose usual lack of clothing was augmented by a tattooed ship’s patch on her upper arm. “The only way they can compete with the Guild is by cutting their margins so much they can barely break even on a run. Unless they just steal the cargo instead.”

“Does that happen often?” I asked. Getting a reputation for that sort of thing didn’t sound like good business to me, and I suspected she might be exaggerating. Clearly there was no love lost between Guilders and the Freebooters.

“Now and again,” Clio said. “Not so often you won’t find a shipper willing to take the risk. Or threatening to, to get the price down.” She watched the green woman undulate into a tavern, accompanied by a couple of her shipmates, and sighed. “Damn. We’ll have to find a different bar now.”

“Really?” I wasn’t just surprised, I was faintly shocked. “Just because there are a few Freebooters in there?”

“There’ll be more than a few,” she said. “They stick together. Walk in there wearing that—” she indicated my Guild patch—“and we’ll be fighting our way out again.”

“I can take care of myself,” I said, with more confidence than I felt.

“Right.” Clio seemed unconvinced. “But we’re still finding a different bar.”

I glanced up and down the street. They all looked pretty much the same from where I was standing.

“Pardon me,” a voice said at my elbow, in the slightly nasal tones I generally associated with citizens of the League. I stepped aside reflexively, making room for a blond fellow of about my age and height to slip past on the crowded sidewalk, arm in arm with a brunette. Both wore Toniden Line livery, and I glanced at the ship patches on their shoulders as they moved past, moved by no more than idle curiosity—then fought to keep my expression neutral. They were both from the
Eddie Fitz.

“How about this one, then?” I suggested, indicating the doorway into which they’d disappeared.

Clio shrugged. “Guess it’ll do,” she agreed.

I’d feared the bar would be too crowded to keep my quarry in sight, but it was still too early in the evening to be really packed; a few of the locals were occupying tables, nursing tankards of ale, having just completed shifts in the nearby warehouses judging by their clothing and general air of fatigue, and the two deckhands from the
Eddie Fitz
were turning away from the bar counter, similar mugs in their hands. I spotted five or six other little groups of starfarers in there as well, mainly from Toniden Line vessels, although there were a few Guild patches at a couple of other tables. No Freebooters, though, much to my relief, as I strongly suspected that if there had been, Clio would simply have turned and walked back out again.

“What’ll you have?” I asked, as we approached the counter, slipping my hand into my jacket pocket for my purse. We wouldn’t be getting our full wages until the cargo had been signed and paid for, but Remington had handed out a small advance in the local currency as soon as we’d landed: a Guild custom I heartily appreciated, as my own stock of cash had run seriously low.

“I’m getting the first one,” Clio said. “I promised you a drink, remember?”

“Far be it from me to make a Guilder break her word,” I said, not quite so much in jest as I was pretending.

“Men have died for less,” she agreed, in the sort of voice people use when they’re making a joke out of something which might be literally true. She turned to the bar, which seemed to have been put together from preformed plastic units imprinted with an unconvincing wood grain effect, and spoke to the man behind it. “Two beers, warm enough to taste.” She glanced back at me. “That is how you like it, right? Not how they ruin it on Skyhaven?”

“Perfect,” I said, as she returned her attention to the bartender. He kept up a continual stream of small talk as he drew the drinks, to which she responded with a fair degree of animation; which was fine by me, as it was keeping her nicely distracted. As I’d reached for the purse, my fingers had encountered something else in the bottom of my pocket which had definitely not been there when we left the
Stacked Deck
; something I wanted to investigate at once.